


A Normal Stupid Saturday Night [‘Fuck Up’ Edition]

by aperture_living



Category: John Dies at the End - David Wong
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aperture_living/pseuds/aperture_living
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Einstein once said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome. We all know where I sit on the sanity scale; I don’t really need anything else to come along and prove it, but eh. Here is it. Smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Normal Stupid Saturday Night [‘Fuck Up’ Edition]

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers. And if you haven't read the book, DO IT.

Fuck John. 

Fuck John.

**Fuck. John.**

When three a.m. rolls around each night, this has always been the only mantra I could ever truly get behind. You would think that by now I would have learned to put my phone on silent or vibrate or toiletflushinggetthefuckout mode, but past experience dictates that I don’t learn my lesson well. I figure that must be the reason why I make the same mistakes eight million times or why I just let this shit go on night after night, even though it inevitably ends up the same way: Mm hating John while standing knee deep in a bodily fluid of some sort. 

Einstein once said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome. We all know where I sit on the sanity scale; I don’t really need anything else to come along and prove it, but eh. Here is it. Smile. 

Fuck John. If I hadn’t known him for so long and if he didn’t put up with my shit as much as he did, I might have just blocked his number. Or something. I don’t know; the digital age has made getting rid of someone so much more difficult than actually necessary. A few finger strokes (wow, double entendre there) and they can find whatever they want about you, where you are, who you’re with, how many nipple hairs you’ve sprouted over the course of your lifetime. We’ve created a generation of CIA level stalkers, all on accident. Thank you, Apple and Gates.

“You smell like piss.”

I glared at him. I wanted to think it was better than smelling like I waded through a basement of shit, but really, bodily fluids were kind of interchangeable. One smell was fundamentally as bad as another.

“If you hadn’t pissed on me, then I wouldn’t.”

John’s shoulders rolled in an easy shrug. “You shouldn’t have run.”

Asshole. “You chased after me, screaming that you had to piss on me! It was a bee-fucking-sting, not a jellyfish!”

“It was an inter-dimensional bee!” he corrected, confident and unwavering. Typical John. “Who knows what secrets lurk in the hearts of demon bees!”

I am going to kill him. One day, the Koran gun is coming out, and I’m just going to—

“—take a shower.”

As I started to walk away, John asked for a beer. Rather than tell him to get it himself, I found myself going to the kitchen like Pavlov’s dog, and only when I was in the doorway did I honestly understand just how trained I was. Shit. Rebellion kicked in, and I threw it at him, hoping at least to bean him in the head, but instead I missed and heard it land perfectly on the couch. I couldn’t even fuck up correctly.

My shoes squelched as I marched down the hall. I hated the feeling almost as much as I hated the sound, and it was the disgusting knowledge of what was making them squelch that ruined everything even more. I’d never seen a guy piss as much as John could, and if asked about it he would be happy to tell you that it was because his dick is so big that it held an ocean, but John never took an anatomy course so I just ignored it. In fact, I ignored most of what John said because I wanted to keep my last few marbles in my “Sane Bag”. There wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to get by. I hoped. 

I stripped down, threw my clothes in the ever-growing To Be Burned pile, and stepped in the shower. Was it really this ball-shriveling cold, or was it _them_ again, fucking with me, always, eternally fucking with me, like a sociopathic kid brother running the stupidest and deadliest of pranks for an entire lifetime?

Amy left one of her fluffysoapnettedball things hanging off the temperature knob, and I wanted to use it but it seemed wrong to not only wash my genitalia with something that happy shade of lavender, but also use it to get John’s urine from out between my toes. I went with the crusted bar of dried out soap and my hands instead; at least John wouldn’t make fun of me for smelling like raspberries and vanilla. 

“Making a fruit salad over there?” he asked when I walked back out, dressed in not-burn-worthy clothes and wet hair messily shooting up everywhere. I made sure to show the back of his head my middle finger as I went to find something to eat. 

This was our customary Saturday night. Most people were at the bar, out hanging with their friends, intoxicatingly trying to lure intoxicated women back to their places for some inappropriate intoxicating fun that everyone would regret the next day. Not us, though. Maybe once upon a time, but not now, not any more, not for awhile since the universe shit on us and laughed. No, we were out dealing with demon bees and peeing on each other like any good Midwestern gentlemen. I wondered where I went wrong, if college could have fixed this, even though no college would have touched me with my record. Then I remembered what I was, realized none of it would’ve ever really mattered anyway, and felt the apathy sink in. 

I wasn’t hungry anymore and the sandwich was ash in my mouth. I couldn’t tell if it was them still fucking with me or my own indifference. Did it matter? Knowing wouldn’t change the taste. Hell, did eating at all matter? Considering—

I sat down on the couch next to John, caught Molly lift her head to see if I dropped any food, then lay it back down when I finished. Everyone always wanted something. Always.

John wordlessly shoved a controller at me, the hockey loading screen flashing on the television. With the mood I was in, a first person shooter might have been more appropriate, and then I remembered that I was playing with John and figured that ninety-eight percent of the game would be us getting into fights. So, fuck it. Close enough.

See, maybe this was the reason I didn’t just block his damn number. Maybe this was why I kept answering the phone night after night, even though I knew how it was going to end. Maybe this was why I didn’t tell him to fuck off (and mean it). Maybe I did it because he didn’t ask me how my damn sandwich tasted, and instead just shoved a controller at me. Maybe because he gave me pixilated violence and knew it would sit better than week old bread and borderline too-old coldcuts after being a demon bee cushion for a few hours. 

Or something..

Fuck, he just knew me. He knew me. And when you only have two people in the whole world who _truly_ , truly know you, you’re not willing to give them up, no matter what bullshit they put you through on a daily basis. 

Damn my luck, I guess. My interesting, interesting luck.

We must have fallen asleep at some point (or passed out, not sure, don’t care), because I woke up sometime after noon, my head half on John’s shoulder, half on the back of the couch, my neck muscles screaming in rage for the unnatural arrangement. John was drooling in my hair as he snored. Amy must have gotten up because there was a blanket carefully laid over us, drawn up to our chins. It didn’t matter that it was August, hot, humid, she still laid a blanket there and it was awkwardly cute.

Everything kinda was. Even the drool in my hair and the way Molly farted, woke herself up from it, and then fell back asleep. Our little fucked up family.

Okay, maybe “cute” wasn’t the right word. Maybe it was “awkwardly living”.

And I guess that was okay, too.

 


End file.
